


Acrobat

by wolffie__xx



Series: Acrobats [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolffie__xx/pseuds/wolffie__xx
Summary: Tom Riddle was trained brutally - not for magic, but to be a top class assassin. The KGB changed a little boy into a killing machine - but they didn’t break his spirit. Eventually he had to break free... didn’t he?





	1. Prologue

I forced my arms up once more, the weight of the mannequin making my biceps tremble. Sweat threatened to drip down my forehead but I knew the slightest sign of weakness would mean death. Every day the same. One would fall, another would fill in. Breathe, rise, fall, repeat. Feeling the music beneath our feet, the same rhythm when we were forced together in a brutal fight like dogs in a barrel, ripping and tearing just to see the light of the next day. When September 1 rolled around each year my dream began, but when the summer started....

So did the nightmare.


	2. Thirteen

An unmarked boy, one out of many. Thirteen years old and already pitted against those who would kill me just to feel tomorrow. Twenty six boys in my unit. Each one wanted to, needed to, had to be the best in order to ever escape the monotonous days of training - of torture. They called it the Red Room for the girls, for the boys it was The Night. I felt like that was symbolic, as the night ends, but for most in the program the night would stretch on, and on, and on, and on....  
“Вставать!” I had barely realised I had slumped when the stinging hit of the snake headed cane forced my aching back to resume its rigid position. That was any hope of lunch gone then, but I could tell that Сэр was feeling kind today. I would not be Taken. Mika Lestrange glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. Lestrange was my biggest rival; the two of us were the top in our class and as such, only one of us would proceed. The other would be.... terminated. Only one of us would proceed into the elite, where training would commence for us to be released into the world as a super spy and assassin. We all needed to prevail to save our lives. One of us twenty six, only one, would ever see the light of freedom again. After all, we were already spies at Hogwarts.


	3. Sixteen

A watched boy with a hunted look. Sixteen years old and already mistrusted by those who would elevate me to where I needed to be to survive. I had had my first mission a few months prior to resubmitting to The Night; it had not gone well. Змея, the basilisk, had only killed one muggleborn before threats of the school being shut down had begun to circulate. That could not happen. I couldn’t face the thought of being sent to The Night earlier than I physically had to, so I had to place the blame on someone, lest the school shut down, and it had to be someone else, lest I be expelled and forced back. I blamed it on a third year boy named Rubeus, which broke my heart to do, but at least he was able to stay on as gamekeeper. However, this raised concerns with the тень.   
Some would say he was a wraith, little more than a ghost story to discipline the younger ones, but I know full well of the power he possesses over the entire KGB. The тень controls every order we are given, every routine we must proceed through, every test, every result, every choice. Every day a boy fails his requirements and as such is Taken. No one knows what happens to them but the Сэр and those who are Taken. Needless to say, we never see them again. A new boy simply fills in their empty space in the dance, but not their empty space in our hearts. You learn not to make friends early on in The Night, as you will surely lose them. A few days before we were set to go to Hogwarts for our fifth year, Mika was thrown into disgrace as he tried to argue with the Сэр over the extra hour of target practice we were made to do. Therefore I was chosen for the mission of setting Змея on the muggleborns. I still can’t bring myself to call them.... mudbloods, as my own father was a muggle and therefore I really am no better than them. However since I could no longer simply reopen the Chamber, the mission was a fail and therefore I was brought to the attention of the тень. Now Mika and I were even again.


	4. Seventeen

Dead on my feet as I push for the last time. Seventeen years old and ending a boy’s life as a training exercise. My fingers round his throat and I can’t hesitate to stop his clock otherwise he will stop mine. It’s kill or be killed in the ruthless discipline of The Night. I am never quite sure if I am sad or happy to see someone be Taken. Of course I will never see them again, but even if they are killed at least they escape The Night, and I know that any death would be quick and painless. But loss is loss, no matter what form it takes. I know Mika has a cousin who is one of us, and another who already has a wife. These are the families that lose so much every time a boy or girl is sent to The Night, or the Red Room, or any kind of KGB anything. Magic loses its wonder when it is used for bad, and although they teach us Parseltongue, it is so unusual when someone comes with an inherited gift for it that I was singled out from the beginning. Although attention leads you closer to the brink, it is necessary for a chance to be noticed and elevated to the level necessary to leave. I had heard rumours of a girl nearly ready to go through the graduation ceremony in the Red Room. I wanted to be like her. As I walked away in a daze from the practice arena, we all filed off to the bedrooms. I swiftly shrugged on my grey tatters, brushed my teeth and got onto the rock hard cot. The nurses came round, handcuffing everyone to the beds and as the shackles closed around my wrists I felt, for the first time, curious as to how the others slept. I knew I could fall asleep in seconds if the need be, and wake up just as fast, but that cannot be said of golden hearted Ivan, Mika’s cousin, or the clever, calculated Boris. We are all clever beyond normality in The Night, as we have been trained, but Boris surpasses us all. The youngest boy in our group, Elijah, was the sweetest boy you could ever meet at the beginning of the program. Now, he was a cold blooded killer.


	5. Eighteen, Monday, July 2nd, 1945

Moving with uncertainty through the loud corridor. Eighteen years old and lifted to a status above the rest - joining the Acrobats. Mika and I would spend a month training with the most elite, the ones who would be Winter Soldiers. I could feel the iron tang of blood pooling in my mouth, I didn’t think I had bitten my tongue? A sharp pain in my palm bit through me, scarlet blood pooled on paper white skin. Mika had a deep cut dripping down his cheek. Tiny blades whisked across our skin, assessing our pain tolerance, the quality of our stoicism, the richness of our blood. Hearty laughs poured out of the offices, wands were raised, silver knives cutting deep. I had not expected an initiation quite like this. Anger started to build inside me, a tsunami ready to crash on the shores of rage, but I reined in the galloping waves causing ripples in my concentration. Сэр poked his head out of his office and waved us into a hangar, Mika and I filing into a crimson jet. The rumbling engine led us to a remote facility far away, almost becoming the icecap it was situated on. As the plane touched down, we entered an icy building, the strobe lighting burning spots in the back of my eyes. Ropes and hoops hung from the bars crisscrossing the ceiling and boys our age were doing handsprings and cartwheels across the padded floor. I could see one boy draped in ropes, spinning up and down with only the fabric swathes supporting him. A strict-looking instructor shouted at us two to get up onto the hoops and start practising on the trapezes and hung hoops. I scrambled up a knotted rope, adapting to the orders being shouted - ‘use only your legs! Hang from the trapeze with your toes!’ Suddenly being thrown in to this elite but strenuous program with no experience was an honour, I told myself. They believed I could do it. But as I threw myself from hoop to trapeze - ‘graceful, Riddle!’ I found it hard to believe I could ever fit in with these silent acrobats.  
As the weary day continued on, my work on the hoops and trapezes was deemed decent and I moved to floor work. Slaps from the instructor sent me into a flurry of back handsprings, aerial flips and what felt like marathons on my hands only, toppling over and getting back up again. I was forced into a series of backward walkovers, before learning a routine with back tucks and backflips. Finishing off with some round off flicks, the instructor deemed me halfway decent at the gymnastics sector and sent me on.  
Finally rotating up into the ropes, the sun started to set behind the smoky clouds, sending spears of light less and less frequently into the long windows and onto the navy blue pads on the floor. The constant strobe lighting hurt my tired eyes but I pushed myself up onto the fabric swatched falling from the ceiling. Contorting my body in ways The Night had never pushed me before, I fell, turning rapidly, before using the fabric to haul myself gracefully up into the rafters. Hiding among the bars on the ceiling, I paused to catch my breath and do some controlled breathing to work off a stitch. As the harsh call of the instructor rang out through the hall, I dropped back into the ropes, rising and falling, turning and twisting in the chafing velvet. Once, I spotted Mika, falling from a high-up hoop and landing awkwardly on a blue mat. The instructor hadn’t even looked his way, just pushed the mat under where he would land, and with a simple gesture he sent him scrambling back up. I renewed my training with added vigour.


End file.
